Missing Windows
by AliceUnderSkies13
Summary: In which Pitch is their Maker, their Master, Hiccup refuses to kill, Rapunzel is a hunter, and Jack is always being punished. And it all happens in that house, the one without windows.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Oh would you look at that, I am starting a new fic instead of updating! Typical me (lol). I know I should be updating and that I'm irresponsible and a huge procrastinator xD, but that can wait. This idea was bugging me, so I wrote it and here it is. My first "M" fic, it's probably a lot tamer than I think hahaha. So this is BlackIce/HiJack and maybe some other ships, idk we'll see if I even continue. **

**Anywho, enjoy and please review.**

**-Alice :)**

* * *

Tonight, it is my turn. I am beckoned from my room, the one with the wooden bunk beds and dirty sheets. We all live there together. Stacked atop each other like bottle caps. Sometimes, I fill the sink up to the top and let the bottle caps float. All by themselves, free at last. Little do they know, their freedom is the size of a chessboard. Filled with ice cold water that I cannot feel, no matter how long I keep my hand under. Because I lost feeling a long time ago. When he plunged his fangs into my neck. Pale skin stretched across veins, blue and purple. White teeth slipped into my jugular. That feeling…like a knife was tickling my brain stem. Except I wasn't dying, and the blood that flowed was hot and fast. I was able to enjoy the red rushing down my shirt. Against black suit, white floor, grey ceiling covered in shards of glass. I remember that day.

But nothing matters tonight.

When he calls me, everything goes blank. The others look up at me, surprised to see me there in the first place. Surprised that I am not locked up in the attic. Knees drawn towards their chests, hair hanging in their eyes. They sit in the bunk beds. No one ever sleeps. What's the point of pillows? They're used as Thigh Masters and chew toys. Mine is full of holes. My fangs are sharper than ever. It's not my fault…honest. They've been hurting lately, gums bleeding in the dark. He'll make them feel worse. I know it.

I walk down the hall, footsteps barely there. They call me the ghost. My prey never hears me coming. He calls me invisible.

And then Hiccup will shrug and say, "But I can see you, just so you know. Just throwing that out there." His smile makes me want to smile. I never do.

I'm breathing hard even though I no longer need oxygen. I imagine my heart beating. My veins constricting. Imagining things is my strong suit. That's what he tells me, anyway.

But stop. Don't think. Bury it beneath your layers of dead skin. Keep walking, Jack.

The hall is long and dark. Square windows to the left, daggers of moonlight cutting me to pieces. It's the drapes that bother me. He goes to so much trouble to make this place look ancient. And all because he comes from the Victorian Era. Stupid era full of lace that chokes me. He loves lace way too much.

Half-moon swells in the window. Looks like it's about to pop. I am the opposite of popping. Haven't fed in a while. He's been punishing me for trying to run away. Every month, I try to escape at least once. And then I get caught and he locks me in the attic. Rat blood tastes like shit. Even creatures like me can be victims of malnutrition. Maybe that's why my teeth are always hurting.

I lick them as I walk. They're as hard as the ivory handcuffs that he keeps in his room.

He'll jangle them in front of me, "I killed an elephant in Africa once. Look at this ivory, is it not the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen?"

No, it's really not. I've seen much prettier things. Like Hiccup's eyes that flutter when he's feeding. Like that hunter's eyes, so big and green. She is set on destroying the Clan. I see her every so often, waiting on the hill that overlooks the city. She sits on the hood of her pink Volkswagen, knife in hand. I've always wanted to talk to her, but that isn't allowed. Her blood smells so sweet.

Stop thinking, Jack. I shake my head, shoving my hands into my pockets. They are itching to tear him apart. No. Don't do it. He's a helluva lot stronger than you. This long hall is never going to end. Finally, the door is there. Looking at the moon, I pray that he will forget the lace tonight. But no one is up there to hear me. Even if there was, who would listen to a frickin' vampire?

The door creaks open. I think of those horror films that Hiccup loves so much. He's too sarcastic to get scared. He'll sit in the attic with me when I am being punished, old TV crackling with static. And even though we don't eat, he always brings up popcorn. Slathering it with this hot sauce called "fire breathing dragon" he'll say how much he loves the taste. It isn't the act of eating. It's the taste and the feeling against your taste buds. I'll never get that. Taste has nothing to with it. Quelling the hunger is everything to me. But I guess I will never understand the importance of taste. I'm too worried about starving to death half the time. Hic means well when he brings me that bowl of popcorn. I know he does.

Our Maker never means well.

He is the one waiting behind this heavy door. Skin like the ash that sits in the fireplace. Eyes like golden idols, waiting to be worshipped. By me tonight.

His voice makes my hands simultaneously shiver and clench. "You've kept me waiting."

"I know…I know."

"Well if you knew, why didn't you walk a little faster?"

I scoff in his direction. I can't see him. Nothing but darkness before me, the outline of a body slumped over a chair. But he's there, I can feel him.

"Now, now, Jack, don't be immature. I can see you rolling your eyes."

"That's the point."

A laugh that could shatter windows. "Hiccup's sarcasm is rubbing off on you. Maybe I shouldn't let him come and visit you anymore. He's a bad influence."

Now it's my turn to laugh. "He's the only one of us that refuses to kill humans. Bad influence my ass."

"Oh yes, I forgot about that. How he only bites dying. Is he still prowling around the interstate, looking for fatal car accidents?" The body moves from chair to darkened mantelpiece. The fireplace flares. He probably stuck his foot in or something.

I nod. "Yeah. That's how he hunts. I can't control him."

"I've noticed."

"Did you call me here to lecture me or…"

"Or what?" He's teasing me, gold eyes glinting in the dark.

Feel my face redden. "You know what. Don't be a smartass."

"You're saying ass quite a lot tonight. Is that a hint? A way of telling me where you want to start?"

"You're a pervert, Pitch."

"Is that supposed to hurt my feelings? And I see you rolling your eyes again."

"Stop it…just stop it." Fists clenching, insides clenching, too. Ok, now I'm getting annoyed. I want to get this over with and yet I don't.

He comes closer. Shadows creeping across the floor. Long, grey fingers snaking in between seat cushions. The chair is red velvet. Thick and crimson, reminds me of blood. Blood makes my mouth water. Pitch makes my mouth water. Saliva pooling around my tongue, dripping out the corners of my lips. Stop it, stop it.

Pitch hugs me from behind. Fingers along my cheek. "Aw, you're drooling."

"No."

"Yes. You're getting sloppy, Jack." He wipes my mouth, index running along my lower lip. And his skin is so soft. The first time I felt it, I was surprised. My Maker is not a soft person. He's made of hard lines that are sharper than nails. Tacks for teeth and screws for eyes. My skin like paper, accepting his pricks. The needles of his hands moving along my flesh. I'm wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, nothing special.

"You're special to me."

Sometimes I think he can read my mind. But he's not that powerful.

Arms wind around me, tighter and tighter. He thrusts his knee between my legs. He has become my red velvet chair. All that pliability, rich and moving beneath my body. Props me up on one knee. My human chair. I'm half-leaning, half-standing. Hands work their way over black denim. Why he wears skinny jeans is beyond me. But then I feel him behind me and gasp.

"Relax, Jack. Just relax." Those fingers that move like spider legs plunge beneath my pants. Outside of my boxers, feeling every inch of me.

Joints closing around skin. So close, so close. Ok, ok, ok. Tacks and staples and needles and pins. All digging into me. Fingers hold tight, ripping me apart even though I can't die. I haven't been able to die in forever. So he can do whatever he wants. Tear me to pieces. I'm shaking, grinding against his knee with useless breath caught in useless lungs. He goes beneath the waistband and I stifle a scream. Arms over my head, locking around that marble neck. Hard as stone. He's so cold, but I can't feel that.

The cold never bothered me anyway.

Someone once said that to me…it's hard to remember who.

Why can't I—

No, no, no, no, no. Oh shit, oh shit. Can't think about anything right now. I move faster, pulsing with the beat of those long, grey fingers. Eyes watering, face on fire in the middle of the room. Dark and cold, nothing but deep blackness that stretches onward. Like water. Like skies, full of hot clouds that roil, twist, and turn. Squeezing snow from each other in the atmosphere. Flurries falling in whirlpools. Red bolts of lightning jumping in between. Look up and his gold eyes find mine. Never blink, keep holding on while he pulls my boxers down.

Never blinking. "Do the nimble thing."

I know what he means. Before I was dead, I was always climbing trees. Fetching lost things and lost children from the branches. They loved to follow me up, screaming, "Slow down, Jack!" But that's in the past, dead and gone. My acrobatics have not diminished.

Dropping to the hardwood floor, full of holes and dust, I roll onto my back. The deep-throated darkness calls out in voices that I don't recognize. Boards creak, ashes crackle in the fireplace. My feet trail up his legs, stopping to feel the tendon of the knee, the muscles in his thigh. They come to the silver button. Opening it with my toes, breathing heavy as the zipper unzips, the crinkles uncrinkle. So many crinkles in all the right places. Pieces of paper scattered all over a floor at midnight. Hiccup awake, obviously, and scribbling on sheets of college-ruled. I wish he was here right now to bend over me, noses touching, lips against mine in the cold heat of a shut room. He's not, he's not. It's just Pitch, descending onto me as my toes tug his jeans down. Slow, deliberate. I feel the boxers leave my skin. No sudden heat, no chill. The shivers I feel are imaginary. Pitch always tells me that I have a good imagination. Yeah, I do.

Right now, he is a shadow in the middle of playground at high noon. In the dead of winter. Where people play on broken down jungle gyms. Stand on hungry swing sets that yearn for attention. Run through piles of snow so deep that they sink and sink and sink. He is that darkness creeping around my ankles as I lie in the middle of the sandbox. Slipping into me with such ease. Eyes rolling into the back of my skull as the swings rock back and forth. There is a poltergeist pushing them. He falls into me, pulling my shirt up, nails raking my chest. Jeans around his ankles, boxers at mid-thigh. Mine are completely off, thrown into the fireplace along with my jeans. Damnit, I liked those. Embers flare.

In my imagination, the sun is bright. It hurts my eyes. The shadow covers me and I am cold again. Burning skin frozen beneath his touch. We play some more. Handprints everywhere. Teeth gnawing at my ears, his lip. I find his neck with bared teeth and my eyes widen. The blood that flows there is un-needed, unworthy. Unworthy of life. But I am so hungry and my stomach is burning, twisting inside me even though it no longer lives. Pain blooms, saliva drips. When it touches his skin, he laughs.

"Go ahead."

Fingers claw at the wood. A stray nail slices my palm open. I don't care. This is too much, too tempting. His weight pressing down makes everything worse. The burning intensifies. I cry out, biting my tongue so hard it starts to bleed. I'm drinking my own blood, trying so hard not to give in. But my teeth are aching in my gums as they swell and inflame, bursting from my mouth. Everything inside is on fire. I grab at Pitch's back, ripping his shirt. Leg wrapped around his waist as the hunger engulfs me. Scratching and scratching, blood flowing down his shoulder.

I-I can't take it. I lunge at the trickling drops, licking them up with my bleeding tongue. Fingers are trembling, body is shaking uncontrollably. It's just my imagination, only my imagination.

"Jack." He holds me against me. We touch and everything turns red. Screaming into his collarbone, I keep my fangs pulled back.

"Jack." He says my name so softly. But his grip is so tight.

Eyes rimmed in red, I seize beneath him, grabbing at his hair.

Does he wince? No, he never winces. I am the pathetic one.

"Jack, drink from me. You're starving."

"B-Because of you."

"No, Jack. You brought it on yourself."

I hiss, ripping out a tuft of his hair. Another laugh, a smirk, a golden-eyed stare. In retaliation or desperation, I don't know which, I sink my fangs into his neck. He licks mine. I am gone, sunk deep into his useless arteries full of tasteless blood.

Like I said before, taste does not matter to me. When you're sick and starving, a rat will do. I writhe so hard, so fast, that I flip him over. Now I'm on top. Hands poised, arms stiff beside his head. I am crouched over him, gulping down the stream of seemingly infinite supply. Cold in my mouth, I feel it slide into my stomach. I am a prisoner given food for the first time, gorging himself, knowing that too much will make him die. But I keep drinking, scoffing at the fact that I cannot die again. Pitch laughs under me. Splattered with crimson, he cups my neck and laughs.

I feel him, hear him, but cannot see him. Just my white bangs stained red and the stone grey of a neck I will soon devour. This is a loss, a miserable submission that will haunt me tomorrow.

But I was so hungry and I would never drink from Hic. I will always, always, drink from my Maker. My Master. Unless something better comes along. And do you see anything better?

No?

That's what I thought.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Ok, the smut in this chapter was so fun to write ^/^. I'm such a dork, inwardly fangirling as I typed this lol. But whatever. Anywho, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. Please review!**

**-Alice :)**

* * *

I have been drinking for over an hour.

I can feel it all inside me. Blood sloshing in my stomach. Enough to make me sick. When you're dead, organs feel different. They are no longer vital. A heart is an empty pocket full of dried-up black stuff and pocked full of holes. A lung is a deflated balloon. Veins are elastic and your bones are made of ivory. Like Pitch's handcuffs. A stomach is just a sack. A crude sack stitched together with black thread. And you feel everything. How the blood drops down your esophagus. Ten seconds later and it's sitting there, useless. Pooling in the nooks and crannires. Slowly building, slowly rising until it's spilling over. And you can't die, so you just choke and throw it all up.

Pitch makes me drink until I can't take it anymore. He holds my head down, forcing my lips against his neck. Cold fleshiness of his skin, so soft and smooth. My teeth feel so much better. As the red washes over them. Pain recedes with each wave, fangs protruding more and more. I sink deeper into Pitch. Deeper, deeper, until my gums are surrounded by blue veins. I like the veins more than the arteries. Eyes roll with pleasure. But then they're squinting again as my stomach churns. I stop drinking. Blood sitting inside my mouth. Waiting.

His fingers brush my cheek. "Jack…Jack, what's the matter?"

A pathetic whimper.

"Come now; tell your Master what's wrong."

I shake my head and swallow the mouthful of blood. Keep drinking. He'll be sad if I don't.

Hear him laugh. He's probably smiling. I've always liked his smiles. The way they appear out of nowhere. Like someone carved it into his face. He runs his index along my bone. Straight up into my ear. Tracing the cartilage while humming softly.

That's a nice song. It's the tune that my music box plays. The one he gave me long ago. So slow and sweet. Happy. Reminds me of sunshiny days. Before I was dead. Moonlighty nights next to him, nestled into his shoulder. Sitting in the afterglow. What is an afterglow, really? Heat radiating from a kitchen lamp. Steam curling against cabinets as you make dinner. Light through the blinds. The horizontal black bars that scar your face. Or the skin in darkness. Post coital, as you lay with that perfect stranger. Sweat dancing on shoulders and thighs and naked asses. Stare deep into each other's eyes.

I'm going deeper into Pitch.

The glow of morning on your overstretched neck. Paler than usual as the tendons bend in the light.

My tendons are ripping. Inner ear hears them inside. Stomach breaking under the pressure. Pressure of blood, which is thicker than water. Pressure of authority, because he is my Maker and I love him to death. Pressure of my own mind, sitting in the corner and clawing out my eyes as the darkness comes closer and closer and I throw myself into the corner, breaking all bones so that I fit perfectly. A puzzle piece fitting perfectly. I don't want to do this. He is evil. But I love him for some reason.

So I drink.

Listen to the beautiful song. He scratches it up from his throat.

Thick, crimson, and flooding my body.

Notes, notes, notes so pretty.

It tears, it burns inside of me.

Notes, notes, notes so pretty.

One last thread, and then comes the sea.

Notes, notes, notes so pretty.

And everything breaks. Blood comes pouring out my mouth.

He lifts my face with both hands. I don't want to get blood all over him. "Jack, you all right?"

"Ye…ye…s…"

"No, no you're not."

You think?

"But you'll be ok, Jack. You can't die, remember?" Another smile. He pets me as I tremble and shake. Gagging and letting the blood drip down my chin. I nod and nod and nod. Pain stabs my back and chest. Digging into my spine. He holds me against him. "Just let yourself go. I won't judge you in your nastiness, your weakness, your humiliation." And then he bites my ear. "Oh my, oh my, you're such a glutton, Jackie. Looks like you've eaten too much. You sad, needy baby. Choking and spitting up on my shoulder like a child. So sad…it really is. Here, let me sing to you."

He sings into my ear. I'm limp in his arms. Eyes not blinking. My whole body…done, just done. Because there's nothing left. Just me, an overstuffed toy in the wrong hands. He rocks me back and forth. I pass out on his shoulder.

Goodbye.

* * *

"…looks better now. Stopped bleeding from his mouth at least."

That's Hic's voice. Low and floating away. How odd, why is he here? But then I remember the room and the hall and the blood gushing out of me. Pitch's fingers were in my hair seconds, minutes, hours ago. And now I'm where?

Open my eyes. Yeah, there he is. Hiccup Haddock III, brown haired and freckled. Green eyes roving over my body. I take a deep breath even though I don't need to. Wait for a moment, take everything in. I'm lying in a bed. Know that by the grimy sheets that cover me. The mattress with the springs loose, the headboard that creaks whenever I move. It's the bedroom with all the bunk beds. I see them all, one by one as my vision clears.

Hic gives me a wry smile. "Well good morning, sleepyhead."

I smile back. "Vampires don't sleep." My voice sounds different, too different.

"Whatever. I guess we can pass out, then. You were out for a while." He adjusts my pillow as I sit up. "What did Pitch do to you? He brought you in here, carrying you like a baby. And then he laid you down and you were bleeding like crazy. Like you were too full of blood or something…" He stops talking, that wave of realization washing over. "He did it to you again, didn't he? That sick game he plays. Starving you half to death, then making you…I just—no, I can't get mad, but seriously, this is ridiculous!"

His voice keeps rising like the tide outside our windows. Standing on the rotting wood, he throws his hands up and starts mumbling. "It's sick, sick I tell you! And he's probably so smug about, that ancient bastard. Damn that old man, damn him."

I like it when Hic gets like this. All protective and angry. Stone-cold veins throbbing in his neck. Of course, I'll never tell him that.

"Hic, relax. It's fine. _I'm _fine."

"No, you're really not." He kneels beside the bed. Fingers probing my face, pulling my eyelids down. "Look at you. All pale."

"Course I'm pale. I'm dead. And so are you."

He ignores me. "And your gums are swollen. You just look unhealthy overall. It's his fault, Jack, admit it already. Pitch is a monster."

I laugh hollowly. "We're all monsters."

"No. I'm not." And then he quickly adds, "And neither are you."

Hands are deep in his pockets. I pull them out, one by one. "You're wrong, but I'm not gonna argue with you. Just promise to stop worrying about me all the time, ok?"

He gives me one of those you're-a-dumbass faces. "I'm going to pretend you never asked me that. As long as we live here, I'll be on edge. It's this place, these walls and these floors. Everything feels wrong. You know it does. I don't understand why we can't—"

"We can't." I spray spit and blood across the sheets. "I'm not talking about leaving. It's never going to happen."

Hic rolls his eyes. "But why? You're always giving these half-assed attempts at escape, and I know you're not really trying. It's like you want Pitch to catch you or something."

Great job, Hic, you hit the nail right on the head. But I say nothing. I just stare at him. He stares back. Because we both know the truth. My thirst for punishment runs deeper than the scars across my back. Why, you ask? Why, why, why? It's simple and obvious. Two things make me a masochist:

My sister's dead body.

Her blood dripping down my chin.

So I revel in my Maker's ways. They are the only ways I know. Ways of pain and red lines. He is a teacher to me.

Hic's sigh sounds like an ending. The final breath of a dead man. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

That's all he says. What's he so sorry about?

I shrug. "No need to apologize. Nothing matters."

Leaning against the headboard, the ache grows in my bones. Undead shouldn't feel pain. But it's there. Full and whole and deep inside. Pitch is strong. Stronger than me, stronger than Hic. His hands leave bruises all over. I peek under the sheets. My skin is a mess of purple and blue. Feels like my knee is broken. I'm naked. He didn't even bother to put my clothes back on. Hic pushes the sheet up, revealing my shattered cap.

"My God, he's such a…" He shakes his head, biting his lip. "Just stop me before I say anything I regret."

Our Maker is everywhere. He'll hear Hic, I know it.

"Lay next to me."

"I don't know, Jack. You should rest. Heal."

"Please?" Don't know why, but I'm about to cry. These tears are shameful. "I'm in a lot of pain right now, you could help me."

Hic sighs. "Those puppy dog eyes are impossible to refuse. Fine."

So he does it. Crawls into the cramped bed. Sheets are barely long enough. Our toes stick out. Not cold, though. Silences surrounds us. The kind that comes from late nights beneath a full moon. Round and bloated in the sky. My stomach lurches painfully. I roll into Hic, trying not to whimper. Doesn't work. He pets the top of my head.

"Shhh, you'll be all right."

I nod into his shoulder. Breathe in, breathe out. Spiral of dust down my throat. Every time Pitch does this to me, I'm bedridden for at least a day. The others laugh. You're immortal just like us, aren't you? Why are you such a baby? But they don't understand. He doesn't torture them. Doesn't cuff them to a bed and laden them with blood.

No force feeding.

No extracted veins threaded through their lips. It comes to me in flashes. Mind's eye conjuring up the memories of tonight. Blackness of Hic's sweatshirt. Whiteness of his boxers beneath ripped up jeans. I…long to torture. It's sick, I know.

I feel his skin. Cold like snow. Dip of his navel beneath my finger. I'm growing hot, feel it deep inside. Fills me up, a stickiness that melts my organs. Pressure of an overstuffed stomach, of a slowly growing bulge in my pants. The worst possible combination. Everything is hot. I swallow hard. My breaths are ragged. If there ever was a sickly vampire, it would be me.

Pathetic.

Painful.

Sad.

Lips red and wet, I kiss his jutting collarbone.

"What are you doing?"

"I-I don't know."

"You're sick. Just—"

"Let me kiss you. I need some kind of love, any kind. Something real. And soft. Like you, Hic." Tongue trails the bone tracks. Each rail and way that courses across his body. "'Cause he hurts me, so, so bad, and you never do. You're kind. You don't kill. You won't kill."

He coughs and moves amongst the sheets. With my broken knee close to his crotch, I feel him getting hard. "F-Fine. I..do what you want. Anything to make you feel better." Feel him swallow. Tight chest quivering. "Just be careful. Last time, you bit my shoulder too hard."

"Still have a scar, huh?"

Guilt is tangible. Sinking inside. I wince.

"No, no, it's fine. Don't feel bad. Just be nice, like me."

"Like you. Ok." I kiss every inch of his chest. Nice and slow. Lips puckering on the pale skin. I'm trembling. Sloppy movements leave drool down my chin, trails of saliva on his nipples. I am numb. All parts tingling. And the bulge is growing. I press myself against him and he gives a little squeak. Like the rats in the attic. Moans of pleasure escape. I close my eyes and lick his jawline. Each cheek, red and flaming. He breathes fast. There all catching in his chest.

I whisper, "Relax. Nothing will hurt today. It's all soft stuff, warm stuff."

"I know…it's just," he blushes hard, "I'm sensitive. You know that. It takes so little."

"No shame." Without looking away, I slide his boxers off. Toes curling against my palms. They're tossed to the floor. I kiss each eyelid. Watching him slowly blink. Porcelain face all cut and scarred. He's fought hunters, he's fought Pitch. So much stronger than I am. "You're perfect."

"Don't be stupid."

My arms pull him close. We both gasp. "You're stupid."

So close, so close, co close. Lips drawn closer.

I grin into his forehead. Nothing but long teeth and bleeding gums. "Always the sarcastic one. You should be nicer to me. I'm bruised." Straddle his waist, settle on top. "Battered." Our hardened members touch. He lurches forward, grabbing at my back. "And bleeding." We bare our teeth at one another for half a second. Tendrils of spit across canines. Hot, red tongues pulsating like hearts. His member twitches to life. My hand finds it, grasping it firmly. And he whines and squeals. When I begin to pump, I kiss him on the mouth. It's messy and raw. But I like that. How are tongues tangle and our teeth bite down hard. Canines in his lower lip. Sharp, sharp taste of blood. Makes me sick. I break away, resting my forehead against his.

"No…no, biting, ok?"

"Fine, fine."

I go in again. Lips move beneath mine. "J-J-Jack, I'm gonna…I'm sorry, but I can't control myself."

Swift movements. Touching faces and shoulders and elbows. Still pumping, a slow pace that reminds me of the rate of feeding. Your neck muscles aligning as the blood comes pouring in. Slow, heart, beats, come, in, and, out, and, back, again.

Eyes shut tight, I lean into him. "Go ahead."

His fingernails scratch my back. Moaning, he comes and arches his body. I silence him with another kiss. Now it's fast and hot. So alive that I can't think. Because we are dead. How can we be so alive? Two stiff bodies that feel like statues to most, so amiable and soft to us. Lips molding. Clay that drips.

We're dripping in the dark. I pull the sheets over us. Breath congeals in close quarters. Our own personal cave. Eyes alight in the afterglow. Of our sweat. Of our skin beating with pulses of false life. We stare and heave and try to breathe. As heat transfers and then flees because we are dead and life wants no part in this. In us. We are clinging to each other and crying. In sticky sheets and clumps of sweaty hair. Pieces fitted together. He holds me tight. Listening to every frail breath.

I whimper, "My teeth hurt."

He sighs, "I know, I know." He bunches a part of the sheets and slips it into my mouth. "Bite on this, you'll feel better."

I nod and place my cheek against his chest. Teething like a baby. Once again, I am pathetic. Silence surrounds us. The kind that comes from cemeteries and empty graves.

And outside this room, this hall, this house, I hear something. Or someone. The sound of a clicking tongue. Fingernails hitting gunmetal. _She _is spying on us again. The hunter with the golden hair. She sits beneath the broken window every night. Staring past the broken glass. She is a flower waiting to be picked.

I bury my face deeper. Into that spot between his muscles, where the sternum ends.

Thinking about the hunter. She's coming for us. Every day getting closer. Pitch will take care of us. Hic will take care of me. And I'll take care of him. I'll try, at least.

Hold him closer. He holds me back. We breathe even though we don't need to. She exhales. I hear her. Now I wait and pray for sleep. But it will never come. For any of us, ever again.


End file.
